Corrective experiences, diagnosed clinically stupid.

My last post was terrible.
I know. I know.
I felt a sort of self imposed pressure to blog about having been away. I shouldn't have, the post below is testimony to that.

I've been on my tip toes since I've been back.
Contrary to the popular belief that I spend half my life on tip toes because of my height, I actually don't.
My meetings with heels are fleeting these days and living in Asia has meant that shelves are so much more accessible than they were in Europe.
Truth is, I'm excited.

Yes, excited.

Red Button

So of course being excited is this uber good thing right? Makes you feel good, makes your head full of nice things and all that Vaseline covered lens goodness that I have already covered in a previous post. You know what I also covered in that post? Sentimentality, and how I was disposing of it.

The dreaded bastard repeats on me in a constant stream of unimaginable indigestion like burps. The ones that come up your throat just long enough for you to be able to taste the acid before swallowing it back down and brushing your teeth. Yuck right? Well, that's just how I feel about it.

Damn excitement, the sentimental derp, and the immovable feeling that disappointment will shortly follow. Damn them all to hell.

Done.


Taichung's been kicking my ass with fried food since I got back.
How can a city, kick ass, and do it with food you ask? I'm asking the same question.
Actually, I've been asking a bunch of questions.
How can a gravy boat be full of gin?
How has time passed so quickly? This time last year I was pulling 12hour shifts at the library writing my dissertation.
Why is it that I cannot make any decisions?
Why do I need to make any decisions?
Why are my nail beds so short?
Why does Opel poop twice only when I forget to take two poop bags? Actually, why does he have to poop at all?!
How can I consistently write such banal blog posts that have absolutely no point? 

This is just a peek into the stupid questions that are haunting me this week, there are so many more, that I am so much more embarrassed to ask publicly.


S and I decided that I should be diagnosed clinically stupid, I mean, it was a self diagnosis and I took S's silence as agreement.

Here are some pictures, and pictures of pictures.

Ha!

A monk on a scooter. And E's huge shoulders in the mirror? How do people even grow that big?

And I'll end with that gravy boat. Bam.

Holidays are for losers.

Holiday.

The word rolls off the tongue in a somewhat odd accent conjuring up images of overweight English people in Spain eating greasy food while their open pores scream dehydration and sunburn.

I haven't been on holiday in a long time. I've been travelling or visiting friends abroad. How utterly pretentious of me.

I took a holiday this time. Ten days where I intended to do nothing but think about my next meal and talk to people about all things that have nothing to do with teaching.
It worked. I done it!
I was terrified of going away and realising that not only had my favourite places in said holidaying country had changed but that the short time I was going to spend there would mean that I wouldn't just be flying and sleeping alone but that I would spend all of my time in a single-girl-travelling bubble that involved no one but the Turkish author who's book I'm reading.

I was wrong. I know, me wrong. That nearly never happens.

I went here for six days.

My ugly feet...

I met people there, a French guy that lives there for four months a year and walks up and down the beach finding shells without even really looking, a French Canadian couple that kicked ass at answering trivia questions. An Israeli couple so kind it made me nearly close to uncomfortable..

I headed to the city, I won't lie, I was not happy to leave my hammock.  

I got to Bangkok in a haze of beach thoughts, and slightly scaly from the sunburn endured. A rush of communication and miscommunication ensued and I arrived at the building that my cousin's friend lives in. 

The building. 

Not the flat, just the building. 

Half an hour later and I've talked my way in (G-d knows how). The small blonde girl turns out to be about 5'10 and my small sandy feet collapse as I see the luxury of a Bangkok volunteer's flat. They had a bar, a bar!

Before I knew what happened there were scandalous earlobe jokes and a pink plastic French bulldog and squishy plastic poo and a watch that doesn't just tell you it's party time, but actually makes the party and vodka with lime and a cab driver who thinks the prime minister is "handsome, smart, polite, and nice" and a dance festival and a lot of dancing, a lot.

The night ended with a repeat of earlobe jokes, and a hijacking of someone else's bed, and Slash quotes(?!) (apparently everything that's in the book is stuff that he thinks is true.) That was fun, a little too much fun. Who the hell wants to go home after that?

So that's the problem with holidaying. It's just not as long as travelling.

I am never going on holiday again.

D